


Knocked Out

by starrfleet



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: AU, F/M, Fluffy, I haven't wrote in a while, Silly, be gentle with me pls, football au, honestly I don't know what I was thinking, it's a bit weird, titles aren't my strong point, very daft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 01:59:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4810529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrfleet/pseuds/starrfleet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Football AU. Based on the prompt: I was trying to read in the park and your stray football fucking knocked me unconscious. <br/>It's really silly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knocked Out

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in a long while, and many many things have happened in the months since I last did. Which is no excuse, but it's a reason. I'm not uber happy with it and again I have no beta, so be gentle. It's really just a bit of silliness to try and get me back into the swing of things.  
> Characters belong to the BBC as ever, though I'm hoping they're gonna ramp up the snogs in the new series.

As was the Thursday norm, Clara was playing football in the park with her team. It was something Adrian had suggested to her, half jokingly, when he’d seen the picture of her as a child playing with the determination that only an eight year old can muster. She’d thought about it, shrugged it off, and then casually inquired how she could go about such a thing and were there any clubs, more specifically were there any women’s clubs because she had an accidental tendency to play a bit intensely and unintentionally injure any number of males, usually in the balls. Sometimes the face, occasionally the stomach, but notably the balls. A little taken aback, he’d said he wasn’t sure if there were any women’s ones, but his needed a stand in for the weekend, which she was welcome to come to, and one thing led to another (a few minor injuries, only three of which were caused by her) and one of the girlfriend’s of the players had invited her to an actual all women's one and it became a regular thing.

The weather was pleasant enough that she could wear shorts, sans poncho (that had been a hilarious and memorable, if a little embarrassing week), but not so overtly lovely that the park was filled with kids. Which she was blissfully thankful for after spending a whole sodding day with them brutalising Shakespeare. It was early evening, with the air starting to cool on a light breeze: the ideal football playing time slot. No kids, no bugs, no rain, no issues. Perfect.

They’d not really been playing seriously, just kind of messing around, which was why Clara had noticed a very tall, very handsome and very her kind of man sitting on a bench not too far away. He was older, grey hair, with a damn good coat (black, obscenely red lining that she got a delightful flash of as he crossed his legs). He looked like he had a whole world of stories at his finger tips, tens of lives lived in one. She vaguely recognised him, but couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

And because she was half distracted by this mystery of a man, trying to place why she thought he looked familiar (why had he decided to sit there? and pull out a book no less? they were hardly quiet as they played), that she missed the ball and it went straight through the goalposts of her team (i.e. the two piles of bags dumped there to create markers). She put him to the back of her mind, determined to win back the point she’d just helped herself to lose, and threw herself back into the game. Twenty minutes later, her side were two points up and she was riding the winners high when she booted the ball with, in hindsight, unnecessary force, straight into the face of said man she’d previously been admiring. She felt her teammates freeze in horror, as he dropped like a lead weight, off the bench and onto the ground in a rather ungraceful heap. _Shit_.

Racing towards him, followed by Jen and Emily, the others trailing behind in a dazed horror, she pulled her phone out ready to dial 999. She decided, as she dropped to her knees beside him, she’d give him 3 minutes to come to before she rang 999. After a two and a half minutes of her stroking his hair back and murmuring apologies to him, his eyes fluttered open.

“Are you alright?” She asked immediately, feeling her heart give a lurch.  
“I’m…” he paused and licked his lips, “Fine yes I’m fine. Did someone drop a piano on me?”  
She laughed nervously, while quietly delighting in the evident Scottish lilt in his voice.  
“Football I’m afraid. I’m really sorry. Can you sit up?” “Football? Was it made of lead?” He grimaced as he sat up and leaned against the bench, muttering something under his breath that she wasn’t sure was English. “God, I’m really sorry.”   
“Whatever for? It’s hardly your fault someone’s decided to drop a lead football on my head. Very strange activity. Dropping footballs from the sky.”   
At least he wasn’t upset with her. She was worried she’d caused him some kind of mild concussion, or quite possibly knocked a few screws loose in his brain, but he seemed relatively okay about the whole situation so felt it was safe to laugh, albeit a bit warily. As he rubbed his head, and looked suspiciously upwards (she hoped for comedic effect), Jen and Emily raised their eyebrows at her.  
“Glad you’re alright and everything, but if you don’t mind we’ve got a game to get back to-“  
“Emily!” Jen swatted at her arm and Clara rolled her eyes.  
“Subtle, Emily. Go on, bugger off.”   
“What about you?”  
“I’ll be there in a bit,” she glanced sideways, not quite convinced she hadn’t done more damage than a bruise, “I just want to make sure he’s okay.”  
“I’m—“  
 “Shush!” She interrupted before he could finish, turning back to her friends, “Besides, if I’m not there you might have a chance of winning.”  
“ _Right_. You’re on, Oswald,” Emily narrowed her eyes before storming off, dragging a laughing Jen with her. Clara smirked.  
“Oswald.” Clara swallowed, ignoring the way her skin prickled when he said it, “What do you think? I think it’s a bit rubbish myself. Far too much of a mouthful.”   
“I rather like it. Got any others?”  
“Clara. What about you?”   
“ _Clara_.”  
She sucked in a breath. Blimey he could roll those r’s. “Really? Funny name for a bloke. Not often I meet a Clara as it is, but a male Clara… you must be special.”   
He smiled, and oh boy was she in trouble. “People call me the Doctor.”  
 “Pity. I rather liked Clara,” she smiled back, aware that she flirting probably more than was necessary. That being said, he was definitely checking her out. None too subtly either.  
“Little bit self assured aren’t we?”  
 “Only the days ending with y.”  
He shifted, which brought him noticeably closer her. Most likely it was because he was uncomfortable, because the wood was digging into his spine or his legs were cramping (which to be fair, her’s weren’t far off either). More than likely it was any number of things… but the way he was looking at her, with a depth and intensity she was a little thrown by, made her question it. She decided, because he wasn’t being subtle about looking at her like he wanting to take her clothes off with his teeth, and because she hadn’t felt like it was decent to do so with him lying on the floor unconscious (by her doing), she’d stare at him just as openly, and use the opportunity to her advantage.

He had long legs. Really long actually. Boney, distinguishable even through his tartan trousers. A very skinny frame all round really, reminiscent of a stick insect. He was wearing a dark shirt, quite possibly a size too small, but surprisingly that wasn’t what struck her. What struck her was the white polka dots on the skirt, which she found unspeakably amusing when paired with his tartan trousers. His coat was very well cut, well fitted to his frame, with a frankly pornographic red silk lining which was lying partially visible to her now. Moving swiftly on, Clara found herself studying his face, his hair looking like it had never been brushed a day in its life, shades she was sure only came from stars. His mouth, which was quirked up at the corners, looking far too kissable, eyes that were a mix of blues and greys, eating up the light around them.

Apparently they’d been looking at each other for quite sometime without speaking, which was an oddity in itself, as Clara heard a shout from behind her, encouraging her return. The sound shattered the building moment between them.  
“There in a minute!” She shouted, half over her shoulder, half in his face because she refused to break eye contact. With a flare of guilt, her eyes flickered up to his hairline, where there was a substantial red mark, looking angry and sore.  
“Christ, I really am sorry about that,” she only realised she’d lifted her hand to touch his skin until she’d done so, and as casually as she could, dropped it back to her side.  
“Like, I said, not your fault. Falling footballs and all that. You should really get that seen to you know, could cause all kind of problems for the planet.”  
She chuckled, “I’m sure the planet’s not under any immediate danger from my stray footballs but I’ll take it into account. Try my best not to knock out anymore strangers. Handsome or otherwise.”  
 “You’re growing bold, Clara Oswald.”   
She shivered and stood up, offering him a hand. “What can I say? Can’t help myself around a mysterious man. Think you can manage to stand?”  
“I’m not _that_ old. Well. I’m older than you think but not as old as you think I am,” he frowned slightly as he took her hand and stood, as if he was confused by his own words.  
“Right… are you sure I didn’t give you concussion?” She ignored the way his fingers lightly grazed her wrist, in what she was _sure_ was a deliberate motion.  
“My dear unless you’ve hit me over the head recently, I’m quite sure.”  
 “Well, I did knock you unconscious with a football.”  
He frowned. “What do you mean?”  
 Clara’s blood froze, “What do you mean what do I mean? You were sat reading, I booted the ball and it knocked you out, which I have apologised for several times—“  
“You did that?”  
“Yes? Why do think you I’ve been apologising?”   
“You’re English aren’t you? It’s second nature. You walk into a shrub and you apologise.”  
 Clara opened her mouth to argue, but then was helpfully supplied with an image of her doing just that by her brain, and decided against it. “Besides, why would I tell you that I hit you with a football if I hadn’t? That wouldn’t make any sense!”   
“No. It wouldn’t…” he narrowed his eyes at her and she huffed out an exasperated breath. They were silent for a moment, staring at each other, absurdly still holding hands, before he spoke so quickly she almost didn’t catch it. “But how could you!”  
 “What the hell does that mean?”  
He gestured up and down her with his hands, only realising he was still holding hers as he waved it about in in the air. Looking mildly embarrassed, he dropped it and took to staring at a point over her shoulder. Clara felt her temper rising.  
“Why shouldn’t I have been the one to knock you out?” He raised his eyebrows and glanced at her before looking away again. She’d experienced this kind of attitude from men before, many of them. She pushed down her anger, wrapped it in a smooth ball about the size of a tennis ball, ready to hurl at him at the nearest opportunity.  
“Is it because I’m a woman?” She asked, maintaining such an air of controlled calm that she gave herself a mental high-five.  
“What?”  
“You heard me. Is it honestly so unbelievable that a woman would be playing football? I can’t believe I’m _still_ getting this shit. Evidently I didn’t kick the ball hard enough; I might have been able to knock some fucking sense into you!” _Calm, Clara, stay calm_.  
“What on earth does you being female have to do with anything?”   
“You tell me! You’re the narrow minded lanky git.”  
“That’s what you think of me? So little, that I’d judge your power as a human being based purely on your physical attributes? More specifically, so _little_ that I’d judge you on what you have inside your knickers?” He gestured loosely to her lower half and looked away, a faint blush creeping up his neck.  
“I don’t know you. How am I to know any different?”  
“No, you don’t.” He snapped, standing rigid in front of her. After a terse silence, he spoke again, the words half stuttered as though they weren’t sure of themselves, “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m not used to, I was just very… and it’s… and then you’re… I’ve been,” he huffed out a frustrated breath and Clara felt her temper dropping, albeit only slightly.  
“It’s not because you’ve got extra bits, or less, or whatever, _that’s not the point_.”  
_Extra bits?_ “Then what is the point?” She asked, settling for a tone just below her teacher voice.  
“The point, my dear, is you’re too…” Clara narrowed his eyes, watching him twist his face in apparent distaste at the next word that came out of his mouth, “Nice.”  
“… Nice.” She pulled in a breath and held it, trying to get her head around someone calling her nice. She watched him bodily shudder and scrunch his nose.  
“Nice isn’t the right word. Kind, maybe.”  
“You say that like it’s an insult.”   
At this he looked surprised. “What makes you say that?”   
“The look on your face. The way you’re holding yourself like you’re in pain when you say it,” she raised an eyebrow at him, feeling her mouth tug up at the corners, all anger forgotton.  
“I’m not in the habit of compliments. They’re a waste of time.”  
“And yet, you just complimented me.”   
“There are exceptions to every rule. In special circumstances,” he shifted his eyes to her, and held her gaze.  
She quirked an eyebrow. _Don’t get distracted_. “Now that we’ve established you’re not shocked that I, being female, knocked you out,” he opened his mouth to protest and she held up a finger, “And that the reason you were shocked was because you thought I was, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, _nice_ —“  
“I believe the word I used was kind,” he mumbled.  
“Fine, _kind_. What makes you believe that I’m kind?”  
 “Ah,” he looked away uncomfortably, then back again after a pause as though he needed to gather strength, “That, my dear, is thanks to this morning.” She frowned, and he huffed out a frustrated breath, making vague gestures ( _again with the hands_ ) “Coffee.”  
She paused, trying to put far too few pieces together in her head. She ran through her morning in her mind; nothing particularly unusual had happened. The only difference she could think of was buying a blueberry muffin because she’d overslept slightly and had to grab something to go with her morning tea and then— “Wait. I _thought_ I recognised you!” He quirked an eyebrow and she hurried on, willing herself not to be distracted by how disturbingly attractive that was, “But, it wasn’t— I literally split your own drink… on you. On a jumper that was more holes than jumper if I’m being honest.”  
“There’s nothing wrong with that jumper!”   
“Off topic! How does that make me nice?”  
“Kind,” he pointed out. She sighed.  
“ _Kind_. How does that make me kind?” she amended, crossing her arms and pulling on her teacher face just for added effect.  
“You bought me tea,” he said, with a shrug as if that explained _everything_. “Besides which, you fumbled and apologised a _lot_ , I mean even by English standards you—“  
“Shut up, you blushed when you said _knickers_.”  
They both stood, mildly flustered and embarrassed, from compliments disguised as insults and awkward deflections, each trying to deny being what the other was implying. After a while of glancing at each other and away again, then back, Clara let out a deep breath.  
“This is ridiculous.”  
“Agreed.”  
She sucked in a breath and then spoke in a rush before she could change her mind. “Want to go for a drink?”  
“With the woman who in one day spilt hot tea on my favourite jumper, _and_ knocked me unconscious while I was sat innocently reading?”  
“I did apologise.”  
 “You did.” The corners of his mouth were twitching at the impulse to smirk. Clara tried her best not to squirm.  
“So?”  
“So?” He repeated, quirking his brow, and showing the beginnings of a smile.  
“ _So_ , you rotten git,” she prodded his chest, “Do you want to go for a drink, even after I spilt tea on your favourite jumper and knocked you out?”  
 “ _Hot_ tea.”  
“I swear I will knock you out. _Again_. Harder this time.” He smirked. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to punch him or fuck him. Possibly both.  
“If you don’t give me an answer—“  
“No,” Clara immediately felt an irrational swell of disappointment, and fought to keep it from showing on her face, “No I don’t want to go for drinks with you. Dinner, maybe.” He shrugged and she momentarily closed her eyes to regain her compose. Fuck him. She definitely wanted to fuck him. Rough and passionate and fierce so she could wipe that infuriating look off his face.  
She opened her eyes to see him lift his eyebrows in such a suggestive manner that it was almost without thinking that she purposefully took the last step forward between them, and kissed him. He made a noise of surprise, muffled by her lips, and she slipped her hands into his hair. Gripping, biting and sucking at his lip, just long enough that he caught on and began to kiss back, before she stepped away and raised her own eyebrows in the same manner.  
“Six o’clock. Mancini’s Restaurant. _You’re_ paying.”


End file.
